Off Label Uses for the Gelman Process
by JackieJLH
Summary: Life in Section has always brought complications. Some of the complications—and the people that cause them—are just harder to eliminate than others. Madeline/Operations.
1. Complications

**Author's Note: **My ridiculous and over-reaching attempt to make sense of the Sex Police arc. This is two parts serious, one part ridiculous, and one part sex, rolled up and taped together with bits of plot. Parts of it are probably stretching the boundaries of probability, but frankly, the Sex Police arc doesn't make sense in the context of canon and I can't make it. Please don't hold it against me. :-p

This story can technically be read as being part of the same universe as _Thought But Never Said_, but it's not necessary to read that fic for this one to make sense.

* * *

><p><strong>Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process<strong>

**(Do Not Try This at Home)**

**Part One: Complications**

Madeline hates this restaurant.

The staff are, without exception, entirely incompetent. The food is terrible. If she were one who was given to imagination or had a flair for the dramatic, she'd be swearing that she could feel the grime of the floor right through the soles of her shoes.

Of course, her obvious dislike for the place is exactly why Gordon always chooses it for their rare face-to-face meetings, and she doesn't bother to conceal her frown when she spots him at the door, allowing him the perceived victory. Center informants have gotten unreasonably difficult to come by, as of late. Besides, he so rarely contacts her with anything requiring a meeting the same _week_, let alone within hours of his call.

"I came across something interesting today," he says without preamble as he sits down opposite her, shaking his head at the approaching server. The young girl rolls her eyes and slaps the menu she's holding back into its place among the others on the counter, but she stays away, and Gordon turns his attention back to Madeline. "An order from the powers that be for a top-level reclassification, off the record. Put in place nearly two years ago."

Glancing around as if to make sure no one's listening—unlike Madeline, Gordon _does_ have a tendency toward dramatics—he leans in closer. "An operative from One—and she's still there, as far as can I tell. Came right down from Mr. Jones. I was digging around looking for…_ unrelated information_, and it happened to catch my eye."

Madeline raises an impatient eyebrow, and he sighs at her lack of enthusiasm.

"Right, well," he goes on, leaning back in his chair, "there wasn't much in the way of details. Female, in for at least a year or two at that point, but could have been ten, for all I know. What I can tell you, though, is that whoever she is, she's important to Jones. He has apparently been getting reports on her monthly."

That manages to visibly hold her interest.

"The real Jones," Madeline asks, "or the one they're parading around as Mr. Jones this year?"

Gordon shifts uncomfortably. "I'd rather not think on it. Just knowing there's more than one Mr. Jones is enough to get them handing out cancellation orders like morbid, demented Father Christmases." He looks away, frowning. "Or Fathers Christmas? How exactly do you pluralize—"

Madeline rolls her eyes and cuts him off. "When you have something _useful _for me," she says quietly, her ability to infuse threats into innocuous words apparently still effective, if Gordon's paling face is anything to go by, "I trust that you'll contact me?"

He nods. "Yeah. Of course."

She gets up and leaves without another word (she ignores Gordon's sarcastic call of, "You're welcome! Glad we could get together to chat!" and the waitress's grumbles to her coworkers of, "Nasty bitch took my table for twenty minutes and didn't order a damn thing," entirely), her mind already sifting through possible names.

Four sims, two analysis reports, three hours of observation, and six hours of contemplation later, she settles on the person who had been her first suspect anyway.

"We may have a complication," she says the next morning as she walks up behind Paul in the Perch, moving to stand beside him, and Paul chuckles.

"I'd be more worried if we didn't."

She doesn't smile, and after a moment, he lets out a resigned sigh.

"How complicated?"

"Rosenthal," she answers significantly, not turning to meet his incredulous stare. She's just grateful he still remembers the mission—it's been nearly twenty years, after all, and neither of them were even _on _that mission.

"Which one?" he demands, all affronted tone and exasperation, as if he doesn't have informants of his own within every level of the Section hierarchy—not that Madeline faults him for it; truth be told, she feels much the same.

She looks down at the operatives milling around on the floor below, settling on staring at one particular face. Paul follows her gaze, and his look of surprise fades a little.

_Really,_ Madeline thinks, _he should have known._

Eyes turn up to meet theirs, taking in Madeline's cold, speculative expression and Paul's barely-concealed desire to strangle her where she stands. Dropping her gaze to the floor before darting it back up in their direction for only a second, Nikita uncomfortably looks away, quickly making her way out of the view of the Perch.


	2. Idiotic Plastic Badges

**Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process**

**(Do Not Try This at Home)**

**Part Two: Idiotic Plastic Badges**

On days when she's so inclined, Madeline finds trips to The Tower to be relaxing, an excellent way to relieve tension, and, on occasion, the best way to force Paul to relax for five minutes, when his stress levels get so high that his decisions start creeping past unreasonable and bordering on irrational (though she'll never tell him this, as it would probably only inspire him to act irrational more frequently).

To be honest, she's not often so inclined. It became apparent to her years ago that her personal satisfaction depends, to a great extent, on her ability to bend the chaos of daily life entirely to her will. It's not a trait she's particularly proud of—she generally tries not to admit that her moods are dependent on _anything _other than the requirements of the moment—but she's far too self-aware to ignore or completely deny the truth.

Today is one of those days when she needs a distraction. Things have been calm—almost _too_ calm—but there's an undercurrent of suspicion in everything. Well, more so than there normally is, anyway. It's just another layer of frustration to deal with on top of George and his frustrating cameras. If Nikita is passing information to Center, then Madeline and Paul need to, accordingly, monitor what information she's made privy to more carefully. It's irritating, the added and utterly unnecessary trouble it all causes. Sometimes she thinks that if Oversight, Center, and _Nikita_ would just let her and Paul get on with the business of keeping the world from falling apart, her life would be much easier—but then, it'd also be far more boring, so she just tries to deal with interferences as they come, finding satisfaction in the thrill of persisting and, more often than not, _winning _despite the combined efforts of the terrorists of the world, various Center and Oversight idiots, and the occasional traitorous operative.

Paul, on the other hand, is not satisfied with _overcoming_. He's more apt to react with aggressive solutions, well-timed or otherwise. And right now, that impulse is rather ruining her… stress relief.

He stops halfway through licking his way down her stomach, rests his chin on her hip, and mutters, "We need to find out what she's told them."

Madeline stares a the ceiling for a moment, wondering if his focus will return to the matter at hand if she ignores him, but he doesn't move. With a sigh, she pushes on his shoulder until he rolls off of her, and she gets up, reaching for one of the slightly over-sized robes that are always waiting in the closet near the bed, and sinks into a nearby chair. "And how would you suggest we do that?"

"Torture's usually effective," he says. He's not exactly joking, but she smirks anyway, though she doesn't go quite as far as to dignify the suggestion with a response. "God only knows what information she's passed on to them." He pauses, frowns, then asks, "Adrian? The Gemstone file?"

"It's doubtful, but... possible," Madeline concedes.

"We need to know for sure," he insists again, though his words lack some of his earlier conviction. Their options are limited, and he knows this as well as she does.

"We could put her in abeyance," she says, playing out the scenario in her head and already finding it lacking.

Paul gives voice to her doubts with a derisive snort and a muttered, "Again? The woman has more lives than a damn cat." He pushes himself to his feet and starts pacing between her and the bed, stepping over her feet with each pass until she rolls her eyes and re-situates herself in the chair, her feet tucked underneath her. Usually when he does this, he reminds her of a caged tiger—powerful, on edge, waiting only to be released so it can realize its full potential.

Naked, some of the effect is lost.

Madeline watches him stalk across the room, caught between fondness for him and exasperation. He's _brooding_, which is not only annoying, but entirely counter-productive.

Of course, he'd hardly be Paul if he _didn't._

"We could always use the tried and true method."

"A stake through the heart?" he suggests, slowing his pacing to stare at her impatiently.

She almost laughs at that, but really, there's so very little that she finds amusing about any of this. "Ignoring her. She'll make an error sooner or later in something unrelated, and then we'll have a perfectly valid reason to cancel her that even Center won't be able to dispute. Assuming she doesn't get herself killed first. She's been headed down that road for years as it is."

And she has; it's part of what Madeline cannot stand about Nikita. She has potential, she has the _ability_ to be great. The fact that she refuses to live up to that is irritating at best, and though up until now, Madeline has continued to prod Nikita toward growing into what she _could _be, Nikita's proven time and again that she will, ultimately, self-destruct. Madeline gave up being disappointed about that long ago, and now just regrets that the girl is bringing Michael down with her.

Of course, maybe that's all been an act as well. That thought almost inspires grudging respect, but Madeline squashes it down immediately; if Nikita actually _realizes_ what she's doing, that might just be worse. Their work at Section is too important for these… _games_.

The fact that Michael—quite possible one of the best operatives they've recruited since taking over the Perch all those years ago—has consistently risked his future with Section over someone who, as it turns out, has simply been playing all of them... well. It rather makes the stake-through-the-heart option seem more attractive. Not to mention serving as a perfect example for why relationships inside Section always end in ruin and cancellation.

She chooses not to consider the irony of making such an assertion while in the same room as a naked Paul.

"I'm going to take a shower," she decides, getting to her feet. Paul barely nods—a sure sign that no one but Nikita is on his mind.

When she emerges from the bathroom six minutes later, he's dressed and leaning over the table, scribbling notes and a diagram of some sort on the back of a napkin. She watches him, not without a hint of curiosity—every time he comes up with some plan that ends up turning her world upside down, it always begins with paper. She's not quite sure if the feeling that rushes through her is dread or anticipation.

Finally, he turns and all but shoves the napkin into her hand. She glances down at it, then frowns.

"There's never a valid excuse for the Gelman process," she points out—there hadn't even really been a valid reason to use it on Adrian, honestly—though the wheels in her head are already turning because she knows Paul better than she knows herself, and she can tell by the look on his face and the way he's squared his shoulders that this is the course of action he's going to pursue, whether she approves or not.

"So find one," he insists in that stubbornly irrational tone that she finds both inherently _Paul _and completely maddening. She sighs. "We could make her tell us what she's told them, then make her forget we'd ever even spoken."

"And then watch her slowly go crazy and, eventually, die?" Madeline asks mildly, her focus more on the scribbled handwriting on the napkin than on the conversation.

"Yes," he says shortly, and she can see by just glancing at him that his feet are itching to resume their pacing.

"Someone in Center might notice if that happened," she says, pointing out the extremely-obvious, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Paul doesn't look like he much cares. "So find a reason for it to not matter." Grabbing his coat from the table where he hastily discarded it forty-five minutes ago, he heads for the door. "Just figure out a way to make it work," he orders as he leaves.

Madeline looks back down at the note in her hand, reading over the half-formed ideas and possible scenarios that Paul had jotted down, then turns to the table and drops the napkin into the vase standing there. It settles in among the stems of the flowers, and she watches as the water turns an inky blue and the words begin to bleed together.

The idea is flawed, certainly. It has the potential for serious repercussions. She's not even entirely certain the technology can do what Paul seems to think it can—though finding out for sure will probably be the easiest part of the plan, should they decide to go ahead with it. The only matter, really, that stands in the way is how to keep Center from interfering. They obviously are not about to protect Nikita—she's nearly died more times than anyone, field operative or not, has any right to—but Madeline can't imagine a scenario that involves Center _not _reacting to her and Paul torturing their informant to find out what they've learned.

Of course, the challenge presented by such an endeavor just may be the only redeeming quality of this entire situation.

In the end, that is what decides the matter, and long after the words on the napkin have faded away, Madeline is still sitting at the table, tapping away at a panel and going over possible, and impossible, plans in her mind.

The profile she eventually arrives at is so absolutely _ridiculous _that its laughable, but… it'll do, anyway—especially if Nikita's opinions have been influencing Center's data files on her and Paul. Nikita always did seem to believe they were out to get her, and most of the time, she was… well, only partially right.

"So..." Paul says three days later, reviewing the panel with an expression of mixed amusement and horror on his face, "we're some sort of... I don't even know what to call this... sex police?"

Madeline smirks. "You have to admit, they'll never see a connection between Nikita's spying and _this_."

"If you say so…" he mutters, running his finger down the screen to read the rest of what she's come up with. "I feel like we should get a couple of those idiotic, plastic cop badges to wear." He hands the panel back to her as if just _holding _the idea is offending him. "After all, Center is already going to think we've lost our minds."

She shrugs. "Yes, but it'll work."

"And besides," she adds with a wry smile, "they're insulting our intelligence; we may as well insult theirs."


	3. The People Who Hate George Club

**Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process**

**(Do Not Try This at Home)**

**Part Three: The-People-Who-Want-to-Kill-George Club**

The "sex police nonsense" profile, as Paul has taken to calling it, is put into motion almost immediately—a few key conversations in places where Gordon assures her Center has placed cameras do the job of keeping the higher-ups in the loop without causing them to interfere—but then just as quickly, it's all pushed aside.

Paul slips Madeline a note that George has added the Tower to his surveillance routine, and together they finally deal with George… in that way where, in the end, they don't actually deal with him at all. Fueled with the frustration of wasting two years to come out with nothing but a few dozen bruises and a mildly guilt-ridden Paul, she turns her energy toward the Nikita problem, which is, at least, a situation she can do something to change.

The only problem is that with the George mission over, Oversight's turned off or fried most of their cameras, and most of those were the ones that Center was watching through as well.

A phone call and a hastily scheduled flight later, Madeline finds herself back in the restaurant that seems to exist only to annoy her.

The waitress glares at her from the moment she walks in the door. Madeline ignores her, which only seems to make the girl glare harder.

Gordon, never one for ignoring anything, winks at the girl as he snatches a menu from the counter. The waitress makes a show of being utterly scandalized, then turns away to start complaining about it to one of her coworkers.

"I was in Spain, you know," Gordon says pointedly as he sinks into his seat, though he's not really upset about being called away, Madeline's quite sure. He'll usually take any excuse to break rules and get into trouble. She suspects the 'easy life' he'd been expecting at Center has turned out to be more dull—and less easy—than he'd anticipated, but she doesn't mention it; after all, his boredom gives him reason to cause problems for his superiors, and if those problems just happen to work to her benefit most of the time, she isn't going to complain.

She offers him an apologetic smile—a peace offering, of sorts, and his expression says that he takes it as such. "I need a favor," she says, the words feeling vaguely foreign on her tongue.

Gordon idly flips through the menu, quirking one eyebrow without actually looking up at her. Pursing her lips in irritation, Madeline lets this go on for exactly ten seconds—about the limit of her patience on a good day—before reaching out and pulling it out of his hand.

"I'm _hungry_," he grumbles, not moving to take it back from her. "I was in meetings all morning, and I've got another scheduled for tonight. I'm basically on a lunch break here."

She shoots him a critical look as she puts the menu on the seat beside her.

"Well, a seven hour lunch break," he concedes. "Still, you drag me all the way out here, the least you could do is buy me lunch."

"I need a favor," she repeats, refusing to follow Gordon off on one of his tangents. "I need Oversight to begin monitoring the Perch again."

Gordon winces in what she thinks is probably meant to look like sympathy, but ends up looking more like confusion. "Operations already spends his day on display in a fishbowl; he really wants cameras in there again?"

"Not particularly," she answers without elaborating, and when it becomes apparent that she's not going to explain, Gordon shrugs.

"Consider it done." He thinks about that for a moment, then amends, "Well, consider it done by Thursday, anyway. I won't be back until then, and I'll need to write up the statistics report that will cause them to think monitoring the 'bowl again is for the best, so…" His words drift off, then he shakes his head. "Make that Friday." Another pause. "Saturday for sure."

Madeline purses her lips in irritation, but really, it's sooner than she was hoping for, so she doesn't push the issue.

"So I hear there was a bit of a showdown with George last week…" he says conversationally, standing up and leaning over to pluck the menu up off the seat beside her before resettling into his own side of the booth. "Things not go as planned?"

When she only glares at him, he sighs. "Hey, I kept it all out of the Center reports, didn't I? I was just hoping something was going to come of it, is all. George is a dick," he mutters. "I'd thought maybe this would all result in him… I don't know." He waves his hand toward the door dismissively. "Going away," he finishes. "Or being dead. Whichever."

That very nearly causes her laugh, but she quickly smothers it into an amused smile.

"We should start a club or something," Gordon rambles on. "You know, the people-who-want-to-kill-George club. We'll let Operations run it, 'cause Lord knows what sort of fit he'd throw if he didn't get to be in charge. You can—"

He stops abruptly as she stands up and shoulders her bag.

"Hey! I thought you were buying me lunch?"

"I can't tolerate this conversation for long enough to eat lunch," she answers, which is probably the most truthful thing she's said all day. Gordon just smirks. "You'll have to just take it out of my budget."

"Right," he cheerfully calls after her as she walks away, "as if you lot ever come in under budget anyway!"


	4. Off Label Use of this Treatment May

**Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process**

**(Do Not Try This at Home)**

**Part Four: Off-Label Use of This Treatment May Result in Side-Effects**

Michael and Nikita (either the person she really is or the one she's pretending to be; Madeline's not sure which, and finds that incredibly disconcerting) are so predictable that it's almost depressing. _Almost_ because it's also the reason this entire profile is possible. Things progress so quickly that even Paul doesn't have time to become impatient. Well, not too impatient.

There are a few snags, mostly centered around how angry Paul gets that Michael and Nikita actually are meeting right under their noses, avoiding detection at every turn, and nothing Madeline's been able to do (and no one she's been able to threaten) has yet to prove it beyond the very first incident Birkoff pinpointed. But proof or no proof of an actual affair between the two operatives, they press on in full view of Center's cameras anyway. Paul makes the final decision _officially_—he's always been the stubborn, reactive one, after all, and Center is less likely to question it—and almost before the doctors and scientists get the equipment ready to be transported, Madeline finds herself on a helicopter headed for the Genefex lab.

Everything goes according to profile, more or less. Nikita arrives right on time, and Madeline gives the speech she crafted while on the helicopter—she even manages to tell the girl she envies her while still maintaining a straight face, if only just barely—in case Nikita remembers any of the conversation prior to the _adjustment, _and then within a few minutes, Nikita's in the tunnel of the machine, her eyes wide.

Making Nikita's mind unable to retain its secrets comes with the problematic side-effect of turning her into a giggling, babbling idiot, as it turns out. The technicians operating the machine offer excuses about how this sort of thing really isn't want the technology was designed to do, strictly speaking, and their apologies and expressions of regret are so blatantly insincere that if they weren't all so genuinely terrified of her, Madeline would swear they'd done it on purpose. She can already feel a headache building somewhere behind her eyes.

"Leave," she orders. The two operatives, not inclined to argue with her, head for the door. One of the technicians—Brennan Daly, if she's not mistaken, though she barely knows most of the technicians and scientists working on the Gelman process by more than face—hesitates.

"You only have about six minutes," he cautions her, edging toward the door.

She nods, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm aware." After all, they'd all read the same profile not two hours ago.

Daly ducks out of the room, and as soon as the door closes, Madeline turns her attention to the woman before her.

Nikita sits on the edge of the machine, her head tilted back as she stares, giggling, at the overhead lights. Even when Madeline calls her name, she doesn't respond. Reaching out, she grips Nikita's chin and turns her face down until she's looking into her eyes.

"Madeline!" Nikita exclaims as if she hadn't realized she wasn't alone until just now. "Isn't it pretty?" She points up at the lights, frowning when Madeline again physically pulls her attention away.

"Nikita, I need you to focus," she says sternly, and maybe because she's programmed to obey, or maybe because she's too far gone to do anything but what she's told, Nikita blinks a few times and shakes her head, but seems to narrow her attention to only Madeline. Well, she seems to _try_, anyway.

"Who do you work for?" Madeline asks, and Nikita laughs.

"Section One," she says as though it were rather obvious. Madeline sighs.

"Who else?"

"You," Nikita says immediately. "Operations." She thinks for a moment, then adds, "Michael, sometimes."

"Who _else_?" She considers the question, then amends, "Do you work for someone outside of Section?"

"Oh!" With a gleeful look of achievement, Nikita proclaims, "Mr. Jones!" Then she grins, reaching out to grab Madeline's wrist in her excitement, and lowers her voice to barely a whisper as she adds, "He's not who you think he is."

"No, I'd imagine not," she answers with an encouraging smile. She doesn't particularly _care_who Mr. Jones is—it's not as if Nikita could be working with the real one anyway. "What have you told him, Nikita?"

But she's stopped paying attention, and has returned to staring at the lights. Frowning, Madeline tugs her wrist out of Nikita's grasp and then claps her hands loudly in front of her face. Nikita's attention snaps back, her eyes wide.

"What have you told Mr. Jones?"

"Lots of things," Nikita answers, looking confused. "I…" She looks down, her eyes darting around, reminding Madeline of a computer that's trying to do too many things at once and instead starts freezing and glitching.

"Does he know about Adrian?" she asks quickly before Nikita stars regaling her with tales of the time she told Mr. Jones what she'd eaten for dinner, or something equally ridiculous.

Nikita bursts into laughter. "Of course! She ran Section."

Earlier in the day, Madeline had been considering whether this interrogation method would be effective for use with captured terrorists. Now, exasperated and nearly overwhelmingly frustrated, she decides torture is infinitely preferable.

"Does he know what _happened_ to Adrian?" she tries.

"Yes," Nikita answers simply with a shrug. Though she'll never admit it, Madeline's blood runs a bit cold at that. She glances at her watch; there's not much time left.

"And the Gemstone file?" she presses on. "Does he know about that?"

"That's a bad file," Nikita says, nodding emphatically. "Very, very bad."

"Yes," Madeline says, not wanting to distract her by arguing the point. "Have you told Mr. Jones about it?"

"Yes."

That could be problematic.

"But don't worry," Nikita rushes to say, as if she worries that Madeline needs reassurance, and Madeline idly wonders if perhaps her face had paled at the revelation.

Nikita again reaches out, grabbing her wrist and trying to pull her closer. She leans forward, her body language screaming that she thinks she's chatting with her best friend and not under interrogation at all. It'd all be rather fascinating if the topics of discussion weren't life or death matters.

"He doesn't really care," she says, her tone secretive. With an exasperated grin, she adds, "He's really just as bad as the rest of you." Then she rolls her eyes. "Maybe worse; Section saves the world sometimes. Mr. Jones spends all _his_ time in hot tubs." She wrinkles her nose as if disgusted by the entire situation.

One day, Madeline thinks she'll enjoy canceling Nikita. Not that she hasn't felt this way for a while, of course, but this experience is doing little to quell the urge.

Eyeing Nikita critically, she considers her words before finally asking, "If he's so useless, then why are you helping him?"

"He has secrets," she whispers conspiratorially.

Madeline suppresses an amused smile at that. "We all have secrets, Nikita."

"Yes," Nikita agrees, shrugging, "but he has _mine._ He knows why I'm here."

She frowns, wondering where this line of conversation could possibly be going. "You're here because you killed someone." She pauses, letting that information sink in. Nikita just shakes her head. "You're here because we recruited you."

"No, no, no, no, no," Nikita mutters, her shaking her head. Her feet bounce against the edge of the machine, her hands fidget, and if Madeline knows her at all—and she's quite certain she _does_—then all of these things mean that Nikita, even in this state, is becoming anxious and nervous.

This is all ridiculous, really, and not at all what she's here to discuss, except…. Except Nikita physically _cannot_ lie right now. Except Nikita believes this with everything in her, and if she does, then perhaps there's something there to believe. Except nothing, it seems, is ever really straightforward and simple.

"And why would Center want you here?"

"I don't know," Nikita answers slowly, "but I think it's because of my father."

Madeline blinks in surprise. "And who is your father?" she asks, almost reluctant to hear the answer—but then, forewarned is forearmed, after all.

Nikita just shrugs, a muttered, "Dunno," escaping her before her attention drifts back to the overhead lights.

When Daly knocks and then pokes his head in the door a moment later, Madeline is still staring curiously at Nikita, turning the information over in her mind.

"Madeline, if you want her back in the van with Michael, we have to do this now," he says quietly, obviously nervous about interrupting.

Nodding, Madeline leaves him and the other operatives to their duty, walking past them and heading for the back exit without a word. The trip back to Section seems entirely too long, and she quickly makes her way inside and goes to find Paul, more than a little curious as to why it looks like someone set off a bomb inside Munitions.

As it turns out, someone had.

"I leave for half a day," she says as she walks up behind Paul in the Perch a few hours later, "and you decide to take up remodeling?"

Paul turns to give her a withering look, then returns to glaring at the work crew busily repairing the walls in Munitions.

"Giles isn't working out," he says angrily. "Bring Walter back."

She frowns. "Walter has been sent to Retirement," she says needlessly, because apparently Paul needs reminding. "I imagine he's rather happier there."

"I don't care," he grumbles. "Giles is an idiot. He set off a wall punch—a _wall punch_! Did he just start training _yesterday_? He could have destroyed Munitions, he nearly killed Birkoff… get rid of him."

Birkoff? What on earth was Birkoff doing in Munitions during a mission?

She turns to look down at him, and as if feeling his eyes on her, he glances up. His cheeks tinge pink with poorly-concealed guilt as he turns back to his computer, and she barely manages to hold back a burst of laughter.

Almost killed Birkoff _indeed._

Of course, forcing the boy to give up Michael, Nikita _and_ Walter was bound to have some… side-effects.

Privately amused, she looks back to Paul. "I'll make some phone calls. Walter should return by this afternoon."

"See that you do," he replies, not a hint of gratitude in his voice, and she smirks.

The irritation of the moment dealt with, he changes the subject. "How did it go?"

"It went well," she answers simply. It's not until later, when they're alone in the Tower and outside the view of cameras, that she elaborates.

"I wasn't able to get much out of her; we were pressed for time, and she was barely coherent for most of it. I did manage to learn that Mr. Jones is aware of Adrian's fate, as well as the existence of the Gemstone file, if not the details."

Paul's eyes widen with fury. "And what do they plan on doing about it?" he demands.

She shrugs slightly, and her apparent lack of concern seems to calm him somewhat. "They aren't inclined to interfere, it seems."

"Well… good," he mutters, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. "Did we learn anything else?"

"No," she lies. "But I don't think she poses a serious threat at this time, and having someone literally programmed to do as we say could prove to be a benefit, especially if we can influence what information she provides to Center. I suggest leaving things be for now."

"Michael won't be a problem?" he asks—quite sensibly, really.

"He will," she concedes. "But we'll have a couple weeks before he makes a move."

Paul nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Glancing at the clock, his expression takes on a hint of mischief, and she knows what he's going to say before he opens his mouth. "We have an hour before we'll be needed for anything…."

Her attention isn't really here right now. In fact, her mind hasn't really stopped considering Nikita's words for the last eight hours. But Paul doesn't need to know; not yet. Not until _she knows_, anyway. It wouldn't do to have him reacting as he usually does—she can already hear him insisting on just canceling Nikita _now_, which, she'll admit, would probably be the wisest course of action, but wouldn't result in them finding any sort of satisfactory answers at all.

For now, she'll look into the matter on her own, she decides.

So yes, her attention is elsewhere, but…. Well, Paul doesn't really need to know _that_, either. And a distraction would, perhaps, be welcome, all things considered.

With a mock sigh of resignation, she lets him pull her down onto the bed.


	5. You Know What They Say About Curiosity

**Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process**

**(Do Not Try This at Home)**

**Part Five: You Know What They Say About Curiosity…**

"Hello, Birkoff," Madeline says from behind him, and Birkoff nearly leaps out of his seat. "You're working late."

"Yeah, I had some work to finish," he replies. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, looking torn between turning back to his computer and continuing to stare at her like a deer caught in headlights, but finally the latter wins out and he stammers, "Did you, um... need something?"

"Walk with me," she says—it's not a request, and he seems to understand that, immediately logging out of his computer and following her out of Comm.

She doesn't say anything while they walk, and by the time they step into the elevator, Birkoff looks like he's going to be sick—which is satisfying, as that's exactly the reaction she was hoping to inspire.

"I hear there was an incident in Munitions while I was away," she finally says, but breaking the silence doesn't break the tension. It only increases it. He pales at her words. "I trust that your... _injuries_ will not keep you from completing your work efficiently?"

Birkoff goes completely still. He knows as well as she does that his injuries were superficial at best; if she's mentioning it, it's for a different reason entirely.

"No," he says needlessly, swallowing hard and shaking his head. "It wasn't really a big deal."

"It's something of a mystery," she goes on as the elevator arrives on level fourteen and she leads the way down the hall. "They tell me that a conflicting frequency triggered a wall punch, and yet they haven't been able to find the source of said frequency."

"Oh?" he chokes out from behind her.

Madeline stops abruptly in front of a large bank of computers, and one machine in particular, and he nearly walks into her, then takes a hurried step backward, watching her warily.

"Do you know how to use this?" she asks, and he frowns in confusion at the sudden shift in topics.

"Um, yes?" he answers slowly, an, '_A__nd so do you,' _implied in his tone, and she offers him an impatient smile. Finally taking the hint, he quickly sits in front of the monitor.

Leaning around him, she slides a flat disc into machine.

"I need to know if there are any internal matches for this sample," she tells him, adding, "above Section level only, please."

He frowns, but nods, his fingers already flying over the keyboard. A moment later, he comes up with the same answer she'd arrived at an hour ago. "No matches found."

But of course, she didn't drag him up here to tell her what she'd already known.

"Go higher," she instructs him, and he twists around in his seat to look at her incredulously.

"Center?" he asks in a vaguely horrified tone.

"Yes."

Birkoff hesitates, but then turns back to the monitor. Only a few seconds later, he gives her the same answer. "No matches found."

She considers the blinking message on the screen, then decides that really, she doesn't have anything to lose. Well, she has Birkoff to lose, but she'll find a way around it, if it comes to that. She always does.

"Higher."

Birkoff freezes, looking at her like he thinks she's lost her mind.

"But I... I don't have... _you _don't even have the clearance to—"

"I'm aware; do it anyway," Madeline interrupts.

He stares at her for a long moment, then seems to decide that she poses more of an immediate threat than the distant, faceless Center. With trembling hands, he again begins typing. This search takes him longer, and she watches as he bites his torn lip, frowns, then grins triumphantly. A few more minutes pass before he lowers his hands and leans back in his chair.

"Three matches," he tells her, looking proud of himself, if still mildly terrified.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and she very nearly blurts out, "_Three_?" before schooling her features into an expression of only vague interest.

Birkoff goes on, oblivious to her shock. "I'm showing one direct match—code name 'N', level six—and then two partials." He taps a few more keys and another screen displays. "Another level six, code name 'M', and a... level _twelve__,_" he says, slightly awed, "code name 'Flavius'." He laughs nervously. "So, um, is Center starting some sort of 'bring your kid to work' program or something?"

Madeline smirks, even though she feels anything but amused at the current situation. "Thank you, Birkoff. That's all."

He hurriedly taps out a familiar pattern on the keyboard, removing the evidence of his presence in Center's database, then logs off and all but runs for the door.

"Oh, and Birkoff?" she calls after him. He slows, turning back to face her.

"Mr. Giles is being… relieved of his duties," she informs him, a hint of menace in her tone, and he stops moving altogether.

"We could hardly do otherwise; he could have destroyed Section. If that wall punch had been closer to some of the more reactive items in Munitions…." She lets her words trail off, idly hoping that Birkoff isn't going to pass out on the floor; he certainly _looks_ like he's going to do so.

"At this time, we're assuming that the incident was purely accidental. However, if word of our conversation this evening were to get out," she continues, "I may find myself with more time than I'd anticipated, and would be able to research the matter further. There is a possibility, after all, that the explosion was set off intentionally. And such an occurrence, as I'm sure you can understand, would be grounds for immediate cancellation."

"I, um…" he stammers, "Giles wouldn't have… I mean, I was there, I saw it. It was just a mistake. I don't think he would have _tried _to damage Section."

"No," she says pointedly, "I don't believe that he did." Turning back to the computer, she reaches down to remove the blood sample disc from its slot. Tucking it into her pocket, she says over her shoulder, "You may go."

She doesn't need to tell him twice; Birkoff disappears down the hall as quickly as his feet can carry him.

Madeline has always taken pride in her access to various and extensive resources, but in this matter, her options are frustratingly limited.

She makes a few extremely vague inquiries. She runs one facial structure analysis after another. Finally, she gives in and schedules yet another meeting with Gordon, which begins with something like this—

_"Madeline, if I do that, they'll kill me."_

_"If you don't do it, _I'll_ kill you."_

_"Yeah, but they'll make it hurt more. I think you like me too much to really torture me."_

_"Don't be stupid. Naïveté doesn't become you. And you're forgetting—I have minions. Psychotic, sadistic minions."_

_"...Point noted."_

—and ends with him providing her with a name, albeit three days later. A familiar name, though one that she hasn't heard in this context since Adrian's days in the Perch.

Phillip.

"And," Gordon tells her smugly, "guess what other name he goes by?"

Which takes the conversation in a whole other direction entirely.

She spends the next few hours wondering just what Phillip could possibly be thinking.

Madeline has always been the first one to admit that her own maternal instincts rank somewhere between those of the animals that eat their young and the ones that lay eggs in a hole somewhere before promptly forgetting they'd ever procreated at all, but she still cannot fathom how anyone could knowingly and willingly recruit their child into Section, let alone _two_ of them. Despite the fact that she's always felt more at home in Section than she ever did outside its walls, she also realizes that she's the exception to the rule.

But then, she's the exception to _most_ rules.

It's just so… ridiculous. _What sort of game does he think he's playing? This is _Section One,she thinks angrily, _not some little _shop_ to be passed down from father to daughter with the family heirlooms._

And if it's possible, that thought only makes her more furious, because it brings her to the realization she can't help but feel she should have reached two hours ago—that to Phillip, all of this was _always_ a game. He never took it seriously twenty years ago, or fifteen, or even ten, and she can't imagine that's changed since he disappeared off the radar entirely. He was always a pompous ass; that may very well have been the one think Madeline and Adrian had agreed on, all those years ago. They'd both been disgusted with him, and back then, answering to him had put Adrian into a complete _snit_—for that was really the only way to describe it—for days.

Madeline knows _people_. That's always been her greatest strength. She can read complete strangers better than she can understand herself most days, and those that she interacts with regularly may as well write their thoughts and emotions and fears and intentions on their faces, for all the ability they have to conceal those things from her.

She knows people, and once upon a time, she knew Phillip, if only barely. And she knows, suddenly and painfully, that he _would_ do something so utterly reprehensible. So terrible it borders on _blasphemous. _

Usually, when Madeline figures out a particularly troublesome puzzle of one sort or another, she then ends up wasting hours working to prove to others that of which she's already completely certain. Tonight, for the first time that she can remember, she instead tries to prove herself wrong, and despite never allowing herself to rely on hope, she _does_ hope that she's mistaken. She has to be; if she's _right_… well, she'd rather find that her skills are slipping than consider _that_ possibility just yet.

Madeline doesn't really sleep for the next few nights.


	6. The Choices We Make, the Chances We Take

**Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process**

**(Do Not Try This at Home)**

**Part Six: The Choices We Make, The Chances We Take**

Her judgment and deductive reasoning skills, she finds, aren't failing her at all. It takes nearly a week to find just enough information to confirm, at least in her own mind, exactly what is going on. Has _been_ going on.

It's another week before she decides on what she needs to do about it, and that decision brings her, once again, to Gordon's terrible restaurant.

"You have to order something this time," the server—_'Nikki,' _her nametag reads, which is really just… fitting, somehow—says as Madeline walks in the door, "or you're not getting a table."

Madeline's beginning to think that this girl never actually goes home.

It's three in the morning, and she doubts that there's going to be a sudden rush for seating any time soon, but the point is hardly worth arguing. "Fine," she says with as much cordiality as she can muster. "Tea, please."

Nikki stares at her impatiently for a long moment before asking, "Anything else?"

"No," Madeline answers, just a tad frostily, and heads for a table near the back of the restaurant. Ten minutes pass before the server returns with a single cup of lukewarm tea, placing it on the edge of the table before wandering away again. With another glance at the door, Madeline reaches for the cup, takes a sip, then puts it down again in disgust.

Finally Gordon saunters in, nodding at Nikki as he passes by.

"You know, I think I've seen more of you in the last year than I have in the ten since I left Section," he says as he slides into the booth.

She shrugs. "It's been a busy year."

"Yeah, but not too busy for a little fun, hmm?" he says with a smirk. When she shoots him a questioning look, he adds, "By the way… we're monitoring your office again."

Realization dawning on her, Madeline glares at him. "Has your work at Center become so boring that you've taken up voyeurism?"

"Hey, I was assigned to surveillance duty this week," he says defensively. "Don't complain at me; blame Operations. I'm not the one who couldn't wait for a trip up to the Tower. I was just ordered to… monitor things." He laughs. "Besides, it's not like it's anything I haven't seen before. If I recall, the first time I met you, you weren't wearing a single stitch of clothing."

Madeline purses her lips in irritation, but tilts her chin a bit higher all the same; after all, it's not as though she's ashamed. "That was part of the profile."

Gordon laughs. "The _profile _said to distract… whatever his name was—that Russian terrorist bloke—for ten minutes. I don't remember it saying anything about not having any clothes on while you were doing it."

If he weren't actually _right_, she'd be rather annoyed with him at the moment. Instead, she just smiles smugly, taking another sip of the awful, watered-down tea before saying over the rim of her cup, "There was a time when I was _very _distracting without my clothes on, thank you."

"You say that as if that time has passed," he quips, shaking his head and looking around the restaurant.

She sighs, her smile fading a bit. "The time as passed for many things, I'm finding."

"Yeah, these days you'll only get naked for the cameras," Gordon jokes. He pauses, considers that for a moment, then adds, "Well, and for Operations."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, with age comes _standards_, I suppose," she replies, growing increasingly irritated with the vaguely nostalgic tone that keeps threatening to creep into her voice.

Gordon doesn't seem to notice; he only laughs at her words as he leafs through the menu. She idly wonders how he doesn't have the thing memorized by now, considering how much time he's spent looking at it over the last few months.

The only other diners in the restaurant get up and leave, and Madeline watches them go, almost getting up to follow them. She could leave now, she thinks, and she's annoyed with how much she finds herself _wanting_ _to_. But she's already made her decision, and she's never been one to waste time on regrets.

But it's a shame, really; despite his complete inability to remain serious for more than five minutes at a time and his overly chatty nature, she's always been... almost fond of Gordon.

She stands and motions for him to move over. "I have something to show you," she says, letting him catch a glimpse of the panel she's got tucked inside her bag. He shifts over in the seat, making room for her to sit beside him, and she sinks down into the booth, reaching into the bag, her hand skimming over the edge of the panel.

Pausing, she glances up toward the kitchen door, and Gordon automatically follows her line of sight, looking away from her hands. He doesn't see her hand shift to the gun in her bag, or see anything at all, really, until she's already fired.

Even with the silencer on the gun, there's still some sound, and between that and Gordon's strangled groan, the server looks up from where she's standing across the restaurant. Madeline ignores her.

Gordon reaches for his watch, moving to press the panic button built into the side, and just as quickly, Madeline laces her fingers through his, pulling his hand—and watch—just out of reach. The expression on his face is that of pure hurt and betrayal, but she can't quite bring herself to look away.

"They always said I shouldn't—" he starts to say, but his words cut off with a weak cough, and blood splatters onto the table.

"Ew!" Nikki exclaims from across the restaurant, running to the kitchen door and throwing it open. "Sam, this bloke out here's coughing up blood all over our table!"

"They said you—" Gordon tries again.

"They were right," Madeline interrupts him quietly as his hand starts to go limp against hers. "You should have listened."

A second later, the cook storms out of the kitchen. Nikki follows at his heels, looking as though she's torn between excitement at what's going on, complete disgust, and the urge to be sick

"Oi, what's wrong with him?" the cook—Sam—demands. Madeline glances up at him, but doesn't answer. He can't see the gunshot wound, of course; it's below the edge of the table, and Madeline was careful. She's always careful.

"Hey, are you deaf? What the hell's wrong with him?" Same starts to make his way toward them, and he passes behind the counter just as Gordon stops breathing.

"He's been shot," Madeline answers calmly, and Sam only has time to stop short, his eyes going wide, before she's lifted the gun past the edge of the table and shot him as well. He falls to the floor, concealed from the view of those on the street by the tall counter.

The next few seconds are a blur of motion. Nikki screams and races for the kitchen door, but Madeline's out of her seat and pushing the girl back behind the counter before she can escape.

"No, please please please no," the girl manages to get out before she joins Sam on the floor.

_Nasty bitch indeed, _Madeline thinks as she steps over the bodies, tucking the gun into the bag still hanging from her shoulder. .

She surveys the room, making sure nothing can be seen from the front windows. Gordon is slumped over, appearing to all the world to be sleeping. All witnesses are accounted for. Everything's gone perfectly to profile.

Still, she must hurry. The cameras on the street are only looped for another five minutes, and someone could come in at any time. She'd rather not kill anyone else today, if she can help it.

Grabbing a handful of wadded-up napkins from the edge of the counter, she uses them to open the register and take out a handful of money, putting the lot of it into her purse. Another look around, and then she nods.

Jusr a senseless robbery in city known for its high crime rate, albeit not usually gun-related. A pity, really, but not something that will raise _too many_ questions. At least, not outside of Center, and maybe not even there. For all his usefulness to _her_, Gordon has never been irreplaceable. Really, none of them are. Not even her, she thinks.

Madeline again steps over the bodies as she heads for the door, carefully avoiding the pooling blood. Pausing beside her table, she picks up the fingerprint-covered teacup, finishes the weak tea with one long sip, and drops the cup into her bag, pointedly not looking at Gordon.

She's half a mile away before sirens sound in the distance.

A few hours later, back in her apartment, she burns the stolen money over a candle, one bill at a time, the edges singing her fingers as she considers her next step.

Brennan Daly's report made mention of Nikita babbling before her second adjustment, and there's no telling what he and the others heard. The entire team will need to be dealt with.

Birkoff… she'll leave for now. He's too afraid of her to risk telling anyone anything, and he doesn't even know what he knows. He's too great an asset to Section, she reasons—and with the help of the traces of melancholy she's feeling over Gordon, she almost manages to make herself believe that.

After Daly's team, she'll go after Phillip, she decides. To target Nikita directly could bring retaliation, and Phillip has too many resources at his disposal, but if he were to die first… well, it would certainly make things simpler. Nikita could then be canceled without issue, and life could go on as normal. Section could survive; it has to survive. The alternative isn't even an option.

She'll cancel Phillip, but first she must find him, and even Gordon hadn't been able to do that. It'll take time.

If Phillip acts before she locates him, her options will be limited, but it'll ultimately make things easier—a target in plain sight is always preferable to one that no one's laid eyes on in ten years or more. So she'll make contingency plans, exit profiles, and in the next few weeks, she'll begin putting them all in place.

But as she's known from the very beginning, she won't tell Paul. Not yet. His pride and his anger would get in the way, and if he knew that he was going to be replaced one day by Nikita—or worse, pushed aside for her…. Well, the only thing Madeline can think of that would be worse than Paul acting too early would be the alternative: that he'd become so jaded that he'd see the exit profile through, only to never want to come back.

No, he cannot know yet. She'll tell him when the time comes to make a move, or at a point when she's certain that his reaction will be one of anger, not bitterness.

Tomorrow he'll tell her that Gordon's been killed and that Center is investigating, and maybe he'll even ask her if she was involved, but she'll deny it—and when he doesn't believe her and checks her surveillance tapes, the cameras outside her apartment will show her staying in for the entire night. Paul will still have his doubts, she's certain of that, but he'll let the matter go; he so rarely questions her judgment when it comes to cancellations anyway.

Over the next few weeks, she'll begin to lay the necessary groundwork. She'll protect Section—and Paul's place within it, not to mention her own—in any way she can. She'll bide her time, patiently waiting for the right moment.

She'll do whatever is required, as she's always done.

And she won't regret it, she thinks, her eyes drifting to the blood still painted in dull brown smears across her fingers, barely visible in the candlelight.

She never has regrets.

Well….

She doesn't dwell on them, anyway.


End file.
